


Trust Fall

by FalleNess, Gwyllt



Series: we're just trouble [Resslington] [2]
Category: The Blacklist (US TV)
Genre: Action, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Humor, Explicit Language, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Military, Non-Linear Narrative, Original Character(s), Resslington, Suffering Donald Ressler, Violence, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-30
Updated: 2019-08-02
Packaged: 2020-07-23 10:34:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20006890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FalleNess/pseuds/FalleNess, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gwyllt/pseuds/Gwyllt
Summary: The Special Agent Donald Ressler is used to dicing with death.But will he pull through this time?





	1. Bang! Bang!

**Author's Note:**

> Liz Keen-free universe. Red surrenders because of different reasons.  
> •  
> Kaleo - Bang Bang (Cher cover)  
> UNKLE - When Things Explode  
> •  
> Special thanks to Gwyllt, my co-author in Russian version. You are the best.  
> •  
> Adhhab! Adhhab! ― (Arabic) Go! Go!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was five and he was six  
> We rode on horses made of sticks  
> He wore black and I wore white  
> He would always win the fight

_“I am a lighthouse rather than a lifeboat. I do not rescue, but instead help others to find their own way to shore.”_

“Sir! Excuse me, sir! You can’t be in here! Sir!”

A young-looking nurse is running through the hall following the man in the fedora. He doesn’t look back. The windbreaker swishes rhythmically as he walks, the soles of his fancy oxfords softly hit the floor. He downs the pace at the “CAUTION! WET FLOOR” sign and looks up.

**SURGERY. DO NOT ENTER.**

The red light is on.

**SURGERY IN PROGRESS.**

“Sir!”

At last the man looks back at her. His jaded eyes penetrate her like an X-ray, and the girl stalls, transfixed for a second. Taking a deep breath, she figures the real man’s age with her practiced eye—the late fifties; this one's a big shot, definitely—there, his tie’s worth half a year wages of hers. In her professional opinion, he looks quite well, even if he’s slightly overweight.

“I’m sorry,”―he lowers his eyes on her name tag―“Sarah. I wonder if you could help me out.”

Something in his polite, almost father-like smile, makes her smile back.

* * *

“Mister Folman,”―someone is tapping him on his shoulder gently―“can I get you something?”

He recognizes the voice. Sarah. His body has grown numb from sitting in the armchair, and the hospital’s stink, suffocating in its antiseptic sterility, is burnt in his nose.

Larry Folman is one of the faceless trading stock players who’ve got Lady Luck in their pockets this month. He visits the no-good nephew of his cousin Jill who constantly gets into trouble, and Jill simply doesn’t have the time to come over and knock some sense into the boy.

_“If she had it her way, she’d put him on a leash.”_

“No, thank you.”

He marvels at the easiness the alias has become his second skin. A lot of time passed, the Concierge’s of Crime mugshots aren't all over the evening news anymore. The short memory plays into his hands. Unfortunately, the FBI is immune to that, and yet for the past five years of “consulting” in exchange for protection, he has managed to almost get them on his side.

Beep. Beep. Beep. The vital signs monitor waves smoothly go up and down. Sarah’s pen squeaks on the paper. Tick. Tick. Scratch. Tick.

_“We’ve had to put him in a medically induced coma.”_

“I’m gonna get you something anyway.”

Red shrugs indifferently.

_“So, who is it this time? Your ex?”_

_“Almost. Giselle holds an unhealthy obsession over erotic asphyxiation. Keep your guard up.”_

He rises from the armchair and adjusts the jacket. Armchair. Cooler. Drawer. Window. Window. Drawer. Cooler. Armchair. His steps blend in with the steady beeping, buzzing, and hissing of the machines.

He catches the movement with the corner of his eye on the bed. Nothing.

He should’ve called his own emergency team. _No._ They wouldn’t have gotten there on time. By some miracle, the hospital is in a few blocks from the scene. He’s done everything possible, everything he could―the best doctors in Washington, separate wing, expenses, caretakers…

_“Donald?”_

_“I don’t like it. Looks like a setup.”_

_“You didn’t like the Ritz-Carlton suite either. You’re very spoiled for an FBI, don’t you think?”_

_“She won’t show up.”_

_“Giselle would rather swallow her whip than refuse from spare five hundred thousands euro.”_

Red draws himself closer to the bed, looking closely. The man’s face is hidden behind tubes and masks. The mussed ginger hair is the only bright spot among whiteness: a white pillowcase, white machines, white face, pale yellow walls.

It’s strange to see him so… lifeless.

_“No, don’t even ask. I won’t. I can’t.”_

_“Stop playing hard to get, Donald, it doesn’t suit you. At least Vincent is handsome. You’ve no idea how many times I―”_

_“And how am I supposed to do it?! What do I do with him?!”_

_“Good grief, what do they teach you at the Academy?”_

Reddington smiles at the memory. After fifteen sambuca shots, Vincent spills Donald everything he needs to know. How Donald’s made it sober through the night is quite a mystery.

Vincent’s intel has led them to Giselle, an endearing thief specializing in stealing top-secret papers. Red would be more than delighted to see the US intelligence covering their asses. Unfortunately, Giselle has walked off with his immunity agreement with the FBI, and Red wouldn’t want anyone but Ressler together with three Justice officials to ever lay their eyes on it.

_“We’ll make a great team, Agent Ressler.”_

_“Don’t think so.”_

_“Is everybody at the FBI this sour or only you?”_

Red can’t comprehend why on earth he’s come here instead of flying off to Nizza on his jet.

_“You’ve betrayed your country and now you’re asking it to protect you.”_

_“Adapt and overcome, Donald, adapt and overcome.”_

An answer pops into his exhausted mind. The answer he is deliberately overlooking for five years of his fruitful symbiosis with the FBI.

 _You got attached to him._ To an unbearable, arrogant boy who has almost gotten him in Brussels.

Reddington doesn’t notice the door opening.

“Mister Folman?”―he turns his head to the voice.―“I want you to come with me.” 

* * *

_A few hours before_

Despite the forecasters bumbling about cold winds and rains, March has turned out to be June-like warm. Coats and boots have been changed to T-shirts and sneakers, the morning latte―into smoothies. Nearby the Congress building tourists’ T-shirts prints are consumed by cloned bleached shirts. Office rats’ strict dress-code is complemented by a leather briefcase, jacket hanging on one arm, and the look of anguish on their faces.

The U.S. Capitol, filled with light, has lost its shadows and together with the square around it, is now reminding a retouched photograph―smooth and unrealistic. A perfectly mowed lawn glows with pastel and bright green. Apartment blocks, like lollipops, are crammed together across the streets packed with cars. Rowdy markets are welcoming visitors, drawing them in with fresh vegetables and fruits. Handwritten signs “GARAGE SALE” are hanging on the fences—the residents hurry to get rid of the clutter they’ve piled for winter. Those having some free time to drop by the flea markets are digging through vinyl and outdated gaming consoles.

A red Honda Accord is maneuvering between the crowds of the residents. Diving into the next turn, the car exits at the Lincoln Park and parks at its entrance. The engine’s off, Ressler turns to pick the bulletproof vest from the back seat. He empties the pockets, taking out two mags for his Sig, and a flash bang. He puts the flash bang on the back seat—it’s no use for today. Reddington rolls up the tinted windows and waits until Ressler is geared up as he’s supposed to.

Instead, Ressler hands him the vest.

Red raises the brows.

“I’m afraid I’m not following you, Donald.”

“Take it. I’ll feel better.”

“Bad feeling?” Red’s lips twist in a tiny smirk, but he obediently takes the vest, examining it like a kid who’s been bought a fancy toy.

“Think what you want.”

“Your concern is flattering, but I don’t think it’s necessary.” Reddington glances at the back seat looking for the second vest. The seat is empty—almost, except the orphaned flash bang. He casts an unreadable look at Ressler.

“One? And you?”

“Put the damn thing on already.” Ressler tucks the gun behind the jeans belt, adjusts the plaid shirt, covering the grip. “Last thing we need is our best informant to meet his maker.”

“Best?” There’s a mischievous twinkle in Red’s eyes, but Ressler doesn’t look at him, busy with shoving the mags into his pockets.

“And shut up. Please.”

Lincoln Park is packed: a group of Chinese retirees is warming up; kids are flying kites and playing frisbee, dogs romping on the trimmed lawns. The sun shyly either looks out from the floating clouds or hides back, the breeze tickling the back of the head.

Reddington and Ressler are strolling through the park for almost an hour, waiting for Giselle. She has probably studied the stolen documents already, finding out Donald is babysitting Reddington, so there’s no point to split.

The FBI, as always, hasn’t failed to remind them that if anything goes south, they’re on their own. Should the failure to acquire critical magnitude, Agent Ressler will be claimed the traitor to the US who has fled the scene with the notorious Concierge of Crime.

Red twists his lips in a cold smile at this inspiring pep-talk.

_“Doesn’t it bother you, Donald? The ease they're selling you out to cover their ass?”_

Reddington enjoys watching Ressler getting hot under the collar at such moments. It seems the current is running through his ginger hair, and a streak is pulsating on his neck.

_“One day the system will have you, Donald. It’s a shame you trust it so much.”_

“Donald, you don’t seem very optimistic about this venture of ours.”

Ressler winces. His hand reaches out to fix a non-existent tie, and he lets out a curse. A few young women in tank tops and shorts are running towards them. They slow their pace, eyeing them both. Reddington stifles a chuckle when Ressler smooths the messy hair, adjusts the shirt, puffs up his chest. He doesn’t get the chance to let a snarky comment when a frisbee hits the agent’s back of the head. Giggling, the women disappear around the corner.

“Dammit!” Ressler rubs his neck. Whispering more curses, he turns his back to, undoubtedly, blow to bits the piece of plastic. A few kids, stammering “Sorry”, approach him, pick up their frisbee and run off.

“You’re losing your touch, Agent Ressler. Although,”—Reddington lets a laugh—“it’s quite understandable.”

“Twelve o’clock. Guess it’s her.”

Reddington recognizes Giselle’s style—exquisitely vulgar—if such a mix makes sense. She doesn’t fit into the local color on her five inches heels.

“ _Raymond, Raymond,_ ” Giselle purrs with a distinct French accent and then glances at Ressler. “Ah, I guess this is your _petit garçon..._ ”

Ressler opens his mouth to answer, but Reddington beats him to it.

“Giselle.”

She licks her lips flirtatiously.

“Business, business… No time for pleasure.” Giselle gives a meaningful smile and takes out the laptop from her _Givenchy_ bag.

The deal works out smooth—Giselle gets the briefcase filled with just printed cash and gives them the flash drive. They say goodbyes and she walks off, invitingly clicking her heels. Men are turning their heads at her, quite definite desire in their eyes, although, there’s no trace of it in Ressler’s. He’s so quiet it’s disturbing.

Reddington can’t remember the last time the agent’s face looking like he’s doing nuclear physics worksheets.

“Don’t you want to celebrate our victory, Donald?”

It seems he has scratched an itchy spot because in an instant Ressler gabbles aggressively: “Don’t you think it’s weird? Her giving you the flash drive just like that?”

“The woman’s guile has no limits, but this is what makes her a woman,” Reddington says, yet he can’t brush Ressler’s question off so easily. The fed’s company might have had its toll on him. Either he’s also become paranoid, or deep down he knows the man is right.

Doubts are embracing him with their cold hands, sending chills all over his body. Red struggles not to betray himself.

“Anyways, the one and true love of Giselle’s is money.”

Ressler glues his eyes onto the bushes, not even listening to Red. Be it a different time Reddington wouldn't have tolerated this outrageous act of disrespect, but not now. Something is happening. Something not good.

“Donald, what is it?” Reddington follows Ressler’s stare to the thick immobile branches. Ressler’s hand slowly reaches for the concealed gun. Reddington mirrors Ressler, drawing his own in the same inconspicuous manner, so far hiding it under the fabric wrinkles.

“Meow!”

A black kitten crawls out from the bushes. Its small paws are hardly keeping the weak body, and the kitten constantly falls down on the lawn. The rising wind is not helping it in his endeavor to keep its balance, but the kitten doesn’t give up.

Reddington lowers his gun. His finger is almost at the decocker, but he doesn’t press it yet. His ears register a hollow pop.

BANG!

In a split second Ressler turns his head and squats down, getting out from the line of fire—and fires back.

BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!

Ressler flies up like a spring—despite the circumstances, Reddington is fascinated by his smooth movements—and grips Reddington by his sleeve to get him out of the crossfire. Their eyes meet—and Red starts to run, his body not agreeing with unexpected physical activity. They need a cover, but instead of searching for it, Red counts the shooters in the bushes.

_Two. At most, three, not more._

A short push—Ressler forces him behind the wide oak’s trunk.

“Donald!”

“Sit!” Ressler barks.

Red doesn’t argue—the idea to put himself on the line has never thrilled him—and, in an attempt to distract himself, he counts the shots until reloading.

Six. Five. Four.

Three. Two.

One.

In a moment, Donald, breathing heavily, shows up. Red looks at him, a question in his eyes. Ressler shakes his head and leans his back on the bark.

“It’s not Giselle,” Reddington utters softly, though there’s no one around to eavesdrop. “She’s a thief, not a murderer.”

“Not helping right now,” Ressler hisses, resembling a rattled snake. He pulls a spare mag from his jeans back pocket and slams the mag into the grip, pushing the bolt forward.

“Backup?”

“No signal.”

“Fuckers did their homework,” Ressler spits.

For a second his gaze alters like he’s looking somewhere deep into himself—and then he breaks the cover, firing shots.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

_“Adhhab! Adhhab!”_

Shot pops. Shriek. _One’s out,_ Reddington thinks to himself. A machine gun fire ruins the triumph—Red pulls Ressler back behind the wide trunk, ignoring a discourteous _“What the fu...”._ Using a small advantage he has, Red breaks the cover from his side, taking out the shooter with one precise shot.

“I’m confident it’s not Giselle,” Red says casually, returning behind the tree. “Your government has stepped on someone’s toes again.”

Ressler looks at him, puzzled, and it’s even funny, especially under the circumstances.

“Haven’t you heard them? They’re from Palestine.”

Ressler is looking even more confused. “So what?”

_Dear God, he can’t be serious._

“Donald, do you even attend the briefings?” Reddington grins and peeks his head out from the tree.

_No one._

_A question: are there two or three of them?_

“Three.” It seems Ressler reads his mind. “Third’s holed up for now. What’s with Palestine?”

“Your government has opened a new military base in Israel and offered the Palestinians to settle the conflict. Democracy at its best.”

Ressler frowns. Reddington could swear he sees his brain creaking like an old door, recalling a decade’s old events.

“It’s the CIA’s mess, not the FBI’s, so they’d better—” Ressler glances at Red’s pants pocket with the flash drive. “Fuck… They need the list of the active assets on the border.”

Reddington cautiously peeks his head out from the oak. The wind is ripping leaves golden from the heat, those pouring down, blocking the view. The bushes quiver, however, there’s no movement inside. Just breeze.

Ressler’s hand grips Red’s shoulder and pulls him back into the cover.

“The vest isn’t on your head.” Amazing how under such circumstances, Ressler finds time to be rude. “Sit tight.”

“I’m the one wearing a vest, I believe, I could…”

Donald doesn’t believe—his body tensed, Ressler is turning his back to Reddington and sticks his head out from the oak.

“I see him,”—he mutters—“he’s a pushover…”

“Donald, I’m not sure it’s a good—”

Ressler doesn’t listen. He spins around and drops to one knee—a classic shooting stance—and fires two shots; Reddington sees his tensed up hand.

He hears three pops instead of two.

Reddington manages to catch Ressler and collapse with him together, so his own body would take the major hit. Ressler struggles to say something. He doesn’t get to spit the words—blood is filling his mouth, the blood-blossoms spreading on his shirt.

“You’re always in a rush, Agent Ressler.”

Red checks for the exit wound—there’s none—and he lays Ressler down on his back. Crowds of on-lookers start gathering at the scene, sirens are blaring nearby: it’s a bad idea to shoot up at the Capitol’s building.

He leaves Ressler and approaches the bushes. All three shooters are there—the gunner is still breathing, and reaches for the knife in his boot. Reddington stomps on his palm and grips the knife first.

 _“Looking for this?”_ Reddington’s Arabic is far from perfect, but it doesn’t matter. He slits the fighter’s throat, pushing his head away so the blood won’t mess his oxfords, and then puts the knife into the fighter’s weak hand. Reddington searches the fighter’s pockets, takes the cell out and dials 911.

“Shooting at the Lincoln Park.”

“Call’s been already in, thank you for your caution. The unit’s almost on site.”

_God bless America and its watchful citizens._


	2. When Things Explode

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I saw my tears in your eyes  
> You saw your fears in mine  
> We watched it burn together  
> Watched it burn together  
> =======  
> Ginjinha—cherry liquor from Portugal.  
> Shemagh(s) —a wrap-around head covering that is essential for protecting eyes, nose, mouth and neck from sun.

“...undergo a long recovery process.”

“Will he get back to work or not?” Scooping the sense out of an endless stream of medical jargon is becoming more and more tiresome for Reddington.

“Not making any promises, although it’s possible he won’t.” Elliot Thompson casts a glance at his watch. “Excuse me, I have to go.”

Red’s eyes follow the white coat disappear in the cramped hallway. Waiting in a queue, patients are sneezing, coughing, blowing their noses; stretchers wheels are creaking, IV poles—rattling. A nurse is passing Red by, her loud voice is ringing “Excuse me-let-me-go!”.

The doors slam. Paramedics, with two cops alongside them, are moving a young man on the stretcher. A doctor runs out to them, one of the paramedics giving him an update. A kid on his mother’s knees is wailing and howling; an old woman is testing the nurse’s patience; an allergic man is sneezing five times in a row.

Sinking into the plastic chair, Red doesn’t listen. He doesn’t care a lick what’s going on around him.

_“Do you even realize how bad it looks?! The President is on the line! What do I tell him?!”_

_“Sir, let me— ”_

_“Quiet, Agent Ressler. Save your excuses for later.”_

_“We’ll talk now, Edward. Someone’s tried to kill me, and Agent Ressler took a decision he thought was right under the circumstances.”_

_“He shot a Secret Service agent in front of multiple witnesses!”_

_“A sleeper KGB agent, you mean. Don’t you think Agent Ressler did you a favor?”_

_“You’re out of line, Reddington.”_

_“No, Edward, you are. Cairo, the 19th of September. Should I refresh your memory?”_

_“Is this a threat?”_

_“Depends on what you’re telling to the President.”_

_“Don’t you dare— ”_

_“Agent Ressler will be formally reprimanded, and it will not affect his possible promotion. Otherwise, the UN will have a hell of a reason to schedule an emergency session.”_

* * *

Reddington sits in the armchair in front of the hospital bed reading Flaubert’s _Salammbô._ Occasionally he rises his eyes from the book and glances at Donald. For these past hours, Ressler has been detached from the mechanical ventilator and slowly taken off the meds. The doctors haven’t given the exact answer when he’s going to wake up, so Red leaves his men to watch Donald during the day. He visits Ressler at night—the only time he’s not busy sealing deals and taking out the competitors.

The night ad lights are dancing on the printed pages, leaping further: a vital signs monitor, IV pole, sheets, Ressler’s ginger hair. Red, putting the book down, rises from the armchair to draw the curtains.

“W-where…am…I?…” Ressler squints in a slow-motion from the source of light. His voice is wheezy, reminding radio static on broken comms.

“In the hospital.”

Donald blinks sluggishly, his right hand making a feeble effort to clutch at the sheet. He moves his lips, struggling to utter a word, but instead, a hiss comes off his mouth.

“Don’t,” Reddington argues gently, his palm brushing Donald’s. “Save your strength.”

Reddington discreetly presses the nurse call button, and in a moment a short red-haired woman appears—Debbie. A soft smile on her face, she nods at him and comes up to Donald.

Red closes the door behind himself quietly, drawing a cellphone out of the inner pocket.

* * *

Two weeks pass, Red comes back from Prague. Together with Petra and Elishka Novac who own one of the oldest beer breweries in the city, Red has arranged his own to operate. The taxation authorities see it as a small yet competitive beer brewery in the suburbs, although, in reality, it’s a money-laundering point. Amber sales profits, mined in Ukraine and Russia, are funneled through it. Mining of “blood-diamonds” in Cote D'Ivoire has been temporarily suspended—customs are mad as a hatter with their insane rates. Two percent—deal; five percent— deal, too; at most, five, but not fifteen, for God’s sake!

Giving the instructions to Dembe Reddington arrives at the hospital at noon. Patients are strolling in the hospital’s park area, watched by their caretakers. The entrance doors are slammed, visitors rushing in and out.

Karen, a stout woman in her late forties, chuckles at him behind the front desk. Hallways are flooded with patients, so Red is maneuvering between everybody: nurses rolling the patients in the wheelchairs, mothers with naughty children, and visitors, peeking in the windows of the ward.

Ten feet are left to Donald’s ward. The door clicks. An unfamiliar young girl in a white coat runs out from the ward, pressing a writing pad to herself. Red comes closer, noticing wet trails on her cheeks.

“What happened, miss? Did someone hurt you?”

The girl nervously squeezes the writing pad harder, avoiding his eyes. Slouching, she’s muttering it’s nothing to worry about. Red looks and the door and then at the girl. Her name tag says “Chloe, Intern.”

“Let’s sit and you tell me what is it.” The girl flusters but eventually sits on the bench. Red puts the enormous paper bag with fruits down on the floor. “It’s my cousin’s nephew over there. At times he’s such a tomfool,”—Red winks at Chloe who smiles back shyly—“but he didn’t mean to hurt you, I’m sure.”

According to Chloe, Donald is refusing to eat and is rude to the staff. He has even told Mr. Thompson to go to hell when he has come to check on him.

“...today he threw a plastic cup at Vicky, made Katie cry, and…”

“And made you cry too.” Reddington takes off the fedora and scratches the back of his head. Except for the massage therapist and PT he makes a mental note to add the shrink into the list. “I’ll talk to him, don’t worry.”

She nods, rising from the bench, and walks off. Red’s eyes follow her for a moment. He takes the bag and comes up to the door.

Donald’s looks have quite improved, his skin acquiring its usual tone instead of deadly pale. An untouched lunch is on a small table nearby. It’s not _Confit de canard,_ of course, but it’s, no doubt, doesn’t justify blowing up at the staff.

Donald is glued to _Tom and Jerry_ on TV.

“Go to hell, Reddington,” he doesn’t even turn his head to Red’s direction, adjusting himself higher on the pillows.

“Where’s Caleb?”

“Dismissed. I told him it’s you, and he bought it,” an evil smirk grows over Donald’s face. His eyes fixed on the screen, he is watching Jerry kicking Tom’s ass at the umpteenth time.

Reddington leaves the bag in the armchair and goes to the TV-set. Pulling out a cord out of the socket, he stands in front of Donald’s bed, and Ressler, whether he wants it or not, has to look him in the eye. Ressler produces a weird sound—something between a grunt and a growl—and tries to fold the arms on his chest. A thick bandage disrupts his moves; he bites the lips, his pupils are dilated. _It must hurt like hell._ The second try proves to be more successful.

Red can’t but crack a warm smile.

“You’re acting like a naughty child.”

“What do _you_ care?” Donald spits “you” with a scowl—be here anything sharp in the room, he would have lashed out at him.

“You're only making it worse for yourself.”

“Piss off.” Ressler reaches out for the call button. Reddington is watching him, an expression of sheer amusement over his face, and in a few seconds it comes to Ressler—no one will ever bother them while Reddington is in the ward. “Really?!”

“Everyone’s trying to help you.” Red doesn’t smile anymore. “Playing childish tricks isn’t helping your recovery.”

“You can’t help me. No one can.” Ressler doesn’t disguise his spite, each word a razor cutting through flesh. “Get the hell out!!! You and your goons, too!”

Reddington keeps his eyes on Donald—Ressler stares through him, hypnotizing the wall behind Red’s back. Out of millions, no, milliards of people, he’s crossed the path with this cocky, reckless, committed, and ridiculously loyal man. The man he’s once used to be a very long time ago. They even share the same blood type—B-negative. When Ressler’s been brought in the hospital, Red hurries to give blood.

_“He’s in v-fib.”_

_“1 mg of EPN, IV route.”_

_“Cardiac arrest.”_

_“Ready for AED.”_

_“Clear!”_

Going back to the armchair, Reddington lets a soft sigh. With a corner of his eye, he spies that someone’s put Flaubert on the bedside table, the bookmark in the middle. Emptying the bag, Red is humming a catchy tune heard on his way here. Satisfied with a still life out of apples, oranges, and pineapples, Red hangs his windbreaker and jacket in the closet. Helping himself to an apple, he makes himself comfortable in the armchair with a book.

Donald groans, but doesn’t say a word. Reddington is silent, too, pretending he’s captivated by the story—in truth he keeps his ears open. At some point groans are broken with commotion and rustle: Ressler is squirming in the sheets, apparently trying to find a better position. Machines are beeping hysterically, and Red raises his eyes from the book—he can’t turn a blind eye on what’s happening anymore. Ressler is panting, his groans get louder, and his right arm is digging into the bleached sheets. It looks like he’s trying to sit straight. Reddington closes the book.

“Lie still, Agent Ressler.” Reddington’s voice is warm and caring, although Ressler senses steely notes behind it. Red’s not joking around. Donald would love nothing more but disobey, yet the pain is so unbearable—despite the painkillers—it almost blacks him out, so he surrenders to Red’s hand lying him back on the pillows.

“I want to turn on the TV.” His eyes meet Red’s, and he hates himself for a childish, unworthy of an agent, an adult man, “want”.

“I suggest you diversify your leisure activities.” Reddington casually fluffs up the pillow. Ressler looks at him, chewing his lower lip, but the face of the most wanted man in America— _ex-wanted, actually_ —is blank.

And he asks a question.

“Why are you doing this?” Donald blurts, his voice shattering in the ward’s silence.

“I noticed you’re uncomfortable.”

Ressler’s healthy arm rams into the mattress, and the machines start bleeping again.

“Donald, calm yourself down, or I’ll have to call a nurse.”

Ressler doesn’t want a new fix of the sedative, and he takes a deep breath to cool it.

“Why. Are. You. Doing. This.”

Reddington doesn’t grace him with an answer, back into the armchair.

Donald snorts, glancing at fruits. His eyes are roaming around the room, fists clenched, knuckles white. It’s quite challenging for such a vigorous, vibrant man he is, to deal with his sudden incapacity. And Red knows that. He also knows that Donald has been extremely fortunate to make it alive.

_“Fractures of shattered collarbone injured the left lung. He won’t be able to use his left hand for some time.”_

Reddington is certain: with his usual heroic maximalism, Ressler would have preferred to die in the line of duty.

Red, drawing the armchair closer to the bed, picks an orange from the dish. Peeling it off, he divides it into slices and hands the biggest one to Ressler. Donald’s struggle between the pride and desire to finally eat something is hilarious. Of course, he doesn’t let Red look after him. Snatching the slice with his healthy hand, Ressler pops it into the mouth.

“And now you should have a proper meal,” Reddington draws a small saucer closer to himself, arranging orange bits. “Otherwise, you’ll get yourself heartburn. I know, hospital meals aren’t scrumptious, but they’ll give you the strength you need.”

Red doesn’t tell Donald he has hired a chef for him—no need for him to know it, or he will refuse to eat for sure. Ressler doesn’t answer, his eyes glued to the wall. The only thing he’s not doing now is chugging like a train on the rails.

“Did I tell you how a baboon spider once bit me?”

Ressler coughs, taken aback by the question. Hitting himself in the chest, he winces.

“W-what spider?”

“Baboon spider. Fortunately, its venom is harmless for humans,” Reddington pops an orange slice into his mouth. Leaning his back in the armchair, he continues: “Mm… Yes. Two worst weeks of my life on São Tomé. I was flat on my back, and but for Gabrielle, I’d have lost it.”

Reddington closes his eyelids, dreaming. “She makes a heavenly _ginjinha_ , you should try it someday, it’s to die for.” Ressler nods absentmindedly and reaches for another slice of the orange on the tray, but Reddington moves the saucer out of his reach. “A proper meal first, Donald. Should I feed you with a spoon?”

Oh, if only stares could kill! Reddington doesn’t hide a grin meeting Ressler’s—the agent is swearing. Loud and dirty. Last time Red has heard such filth off someone’s mouth is the scums of society.

“No, I think we need to wash your mouth out first.”

“Reddington, just…”

“Just _what,_ Donald?”

Red’s voice is calm yet Donald registers icy notes in it, and they sober him up like a cold shower. He realizes _who_ is before him. Washington’s mayor has been sacked just because Reddington’s wanted to. And he has just told him to mind his own business in the rudest way possible.

Of course, he doesn’t apologize. Not to Reddington.

“Nothing,” Ressler grunts, leaning his back on the pillows. “Where’s that food?”

“I’ll ask to arrange it for you.”

In a few moments, Reddington comes back with a nurse and a tray. Setting the tray in front of Ressler, the nurse lays a spoon and a fork near the dish, and leaves the ward.

 _“Bon appétit,”_ Reddington sinks in the armchair. “If you need any help, just ask.”

“I don’t need any—” Ressler meets Red’s eyes. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, Donald.”

It’s quiet for some time. Ressler is clumsily picking up the spoon in his porridge while Reddington is cutting a green apple into pieces.

“The FBI has spoken to you already, right?” Red asks casually.

Ressler’s hand freezes over the bowl.

“Yes,” he answers. Reddington nods: of course, he is aware of what has been told to Agent— _ex-agent_ —Ressler. The injuries he’s suffered don’t make him fit for the job anymore.

“I could—”

“No,” Ressler’s voice is firm steel. “I don’t need your charity.”

Red puts away the knife on the dish and looks Ressler straight in the eye.

“It’s not charity, Donald. It’s an offer to help.”

“I don’t need your help!” Ressler’s voice is vibrating. He must have a lot to get off his chest… Yet he says nothing, his eyes flashing fire at Red.

“Donald, I won’t pretend I know what you’re going through.” Reddington arranges the apple slices with orange bits on the dish, putting them on the tray. Ressler snorts, his eyes on the ceiling. “I’m well aware of what it means to be left out in the open.” Ressler opens his mouth to argue, but Reddington gestures him: “No, listen. You believe that by accepting my help you’ll be in my debt. It’s not true. I’m in your debt, Donald. You saved my life.”

The words come out casually, almost care-free. _“It’s Cream of Mushroom Soup for lunch”. “You’d love it in Tuscany”. “You saved my life, Donald.”_ Laying out the facts. Unpretentiously, without drama.

And Ressler has nothing to say to that.

_“What is it?”_

_“Agent Ressler, he… The police just picked him up.”_

_“The police?”_

_“A beef in the bar. Threatened a civilian with a gun.”_

Ressler is grimacing—not clear, is it pain or disgust. He has nothing to answer, and yet he still leans forward from the pillows.

“I never asked you for anything!!!” he yells, his arms jerking. His voice strained from pain, he doesn’t stop shouting. “I need nothing from you!!!”

The machine gives one short piercing bleep—the heart rate is fastened. Ressler stifles a curse, realizing that no one comes in until Reddington says so.

Donald coughs like he’s smoked a box of cigars. Reddington, filling the cup with water, offers it to Ressler, but Donald is shaking his head so violently like the cup is poisoned. His breath more or less steady, he leans onto the pillows and turns his head away, so Reddington won’t see his eyes wet with tears.

“For an agent, you’re ridiculously unintelligent.”

_“You know, before I turned myself to the FBI, I held people like you in extremely low regard.”_

_“Right back at you.”_

Ressler doesn’t utter a sound. His ragged breathing is the only indication of the thundering storm within his soul.

Red rises from the armchair and paces the ward.

“I’ve been just like you—arrogant, stubborn, refusing any help.” Ressler doesn’t look at him, but Reddington knows he’s listening. “My arrogance cost a few good men their lives.” Red pauses, remembering the explosion at the diamond mine in Kolandoto. “I could have accepted the help, but I didn’t. I figured it’s beneath me.”  
  
_“How many?”_

_“Everyone, sir. Should we move or…”_

_“No, find out how much Geoffrey's help costs.”_

_“And the bodies?”_

_“Find those you can and send two hundred thousand dollars compensation to their families.”_

“To accept help is not a sign of weakness, Donald.”

Reddington goes to the closet. He puts on his jacket, windbreaker, hat. Donald’s head turned to the window, he doesn’t say a word.

Exactly at the moment Reddington’s hand is on the doorknob, Ressler breaks the silence.

“Tell Chloe I didn’t mean to hurt her. And Vicky. And Katie. And,”—Ressler sniffs loudly—“Mr. Thompson, too.” He falls silent.

Reddington gives a thin smile—he knows how difficult this apology must have been for him.

“Of course, Donald. I will.”

He hears the sheets rustle and quiet “Dammit!”—Ressler must be trapped between a blanket and tray. Red turns his face to Donald, his hand still on the doorknob.

“Is there anything else I can do for you, Agent Ressler?”

Ressler bites his lips. _Can he? Should he..?_ His pride suffering defeat, Donald jerks his head slightly.

“Whiskey. I’m sick from oranges already.”

Grinning, Red nods.

“See you later, Donald.”

He walks out, closing the door.

* * *

The glassy surface gleams with amber, blending into pale pink, and the rising sun, hanging in the sky, hovers over mountains peaks. The sun, rolling from side to side, like a golden coin, glows invitingly, although not warming yet. It’s too early for that. The sand, blown up by the rustling wind, snakes over scorched Palestinian soil. A yellow sapling, cutting through dirty gray ashes, is squashed by a combat boot. A dried-out tumbleweed, pushed by the wind, is leaping over crushed stone. The roar of armored SUVs shatters over the mountains. The wind rips, yanking _shemaghs_ from the heads.

**“TARGET_HAS_BEEN_LOCATED”**

**“_ENGAGE_?”**

No one looks at the sky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed it! Drop a kudos/comment if you did, please. It'll make me very happy!  
> •  
> It's the way we should've had these two. They care for each other. Period. You don't glue your eyes to the person like that n say you don't. Call it whatever you want, but they do care.
> 
> Diego n Spader are gorgeous in one frame together. This ship should've sailed.


End file.
